


Hello (Is it Me You're Looking For?)

by xfphile



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Door Sex, Drama, Emotionally complex smut, F/M, Hand Sex, Humor, Infidelity (Sort Of), Introspection, Mild Angst, eventual first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xfphile/pseuds/xfphile
Summary: In exceptionally short order, Jack Robinson found himself being sent undercover in Melbourne’s finest — and therefore most exclusive — sex club.
Relationships: Jack Robinson/?, Jack Robinson/Rosie Sanderson (mentioned), Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 107





	Hello (Is it Me You're Looking For?)

Okay. For those of you who just want to dive right in, know that in my head, this takes place well after _Raisins and Almonds_ , but before _Murder in Montparnasse_ . . . but NOT during _Ruddy Gore._ Enjoy!

For those of you who are understandably wary about the things my mind comes up with, there are more detailed notes at the bottom.

* * *

**_ Hello (Is it Me You’re Looking For?) _ **

_September, 1928_

If anyone was asked to describe one Detective Inspector Jack Robinson in three words or less, the most immediate — and common — responses would be ‘reliable’, ‘dour’, and ‘stern’.

These descriptions would also be applied to Jack Robinson, man.

And he was perfectly fine with that. Steady, stable, reliable, stern, dour, impassive . . . he had gone to a great deal of effort to cultivate this part of his personality, initially to guard the world against the changes the war had wrought on him, then later also as protection from his disintegrating marriage, but now it was mostly to establish the authority over his officers that he needed, which in turn helped foster the respect and obedience he demanded in return for the loyalty and guidance he gave them.

When the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher blew into his life like the proverbial force of nature that she was (which aspect of nature she became depended entirely on the situation and he couldn’t help but be impressed by her versatility), one of the first goals she set herself (or so he assumed, based on her subsequent actions) was to shake his foundations and utterly uproot him. Not to remake him in her image, he quickly understood, but to allow him to remake himself based on what he wanted rather than what he — and other people — thought he should be.

That infuriating, irresistible woman understood him better after seven weeks than Rosie had managed to do in nearly 16 years of marriage.

This was a thought he didn’t allow himself to contemplate too often.

Two days after receiving a packet containing a Petition for Divorce (and seven weeks and three days after he made the acquaintance of the first living human tornado he’d ever known to exist), Jack Robinson found himself dressed in clothes he wouldn’t own if the only other available choice was to go about nude (and was hideously uncomfortable wearing even as he simultaneously appreciated the sensation of being, if only for a moment, someone other than ‘staid, stern, dour’ Jack; the dichotomy was giving him a headache, as his undercover assignments tended to allow his own personality traits to dominate, and he really didn’t know how to reconcile these wildly opposing views, so the appreciation was fleeting.).

His hair was lacking his usual pomade and thus stubbornly and untidily curling across his forehead, he kept trying to fidget with the tie he wasn’t wearing, and his nose would _not_ stop twitching at the unfamiliar scent of the cologne someone had spritzed on him in an ambush just as he was getting in the car, while he hugged the wall of a club so private and exclusive that it didn’t have an official name. The only way to gain entrance was a specific invite from an existing member, and the only rule was that everything had to be completely consensual. Violation of that rule made mob punishments look inviting. Not that he was looking, mind, though that was admittedly because his brain was simply unable to process the concept of having sex in public.

And this bunch of Bright Things (young, old, and indeterminate) was certainly . . . enthusiastic . . . about it. He had allowed himself ten seconds to regret not having anyone at home to share the knowledge he was acquiring tonight with before engaging his formidable will and refocusing on the reason he was here, dressed like the male version of a slattern and doing his damnedest to become one with the wall.

As was common among such establishments, blackmail had come about, and of a high-ranking member of the mayor’s office (naturally). Murder had followed, as it was wont to do, and one of the club members had been concerned enough to go the police (anonymously, of course, because why make their jobs easier?). In exceptionally short order, Jack Robinson found himself being sent (well, ordered, and his vociferous objections were rolled over so effortlessly that he actually had to check and make sure he hadn’t been hit by a lorry) undercover in Melbourne’s finest — and therefore most exclusive — sex club.

His level of enthusiasm for this task had cracked the core of the planet. There might have been an earthquake.

In one of the greatest ironies of Jack Robinson’s life, Phryne Fisher had had nothing to do with it. She didn’t even know about it, having been out of town for — well, he wasn’t sure; all he could get from Collins was ‘something personal’, and he had, after a moment of reflection, decided not to press the young man for information or make further inquiries himself. The last thing he needed was her knowledge of his infiltration of a — of an establishment of this variety. With his luck, she’d be a founding member and insist on escorting him personally (the thought made him flush with what he told himself was mortification). But that meant it was impossible even for her to have had anything to do with his current predicament.

Which meant this was most likely a punishment from George, who was quite displeased at the aforementioned collapse of his daughter’s marriage to Jack (well, now he knew who Rosie had inherited her vindictive streak from).

So. Jack was skulking in a club that was so scandalous he couldn’t even blush anymore. His body had simply given up on it.

He doggedly ignored the fact that he had to forcibly redirect his thoughts (and his blood flow) every four minutes, trying to overlook the persistent reminders of just how long it had been since he’d had sex, and flat-out refusing to acknowledge the envy he felt at the openness of these people. Summoning his willpower, Jack forced himself to scan the room, attempting to identify the murder suspects in question, but the problem with that was three-fold: it was so damned dark where he was that he literally could not see more than about three or four feet in any direction, though his hearing didn’t suffer from this issue (unfortunately); even with that limitation, he was still surrounded by . . . distractions; and due to his extreme discomfort with said distractions, even with his self-discipline, he was having far too much trouble keeping his eyes open and focused (for a veritable plethora of reasons, none of which he wanted to examine in detail).

After the third time his gaze skittered over the same woman, he was suddenly furious with himself. Was he truly so prudish and repressed that he couldn’t even look impassively at a provocatively-dressed woman who had short dark hair, very white teeth, and what appeared to be an admirably lithe figure (and who he kept telling his brain _had_ to be someone else) with the perfectly legitimate reason of trying to identify a murder suspect?

Yes. Yes, he was.

For reasons even he couldn’t say, this realization triggered a new resolve in Jack and he sucked in a harsh breath through his nose as he straightened and pushed off from the wall, abruptly determined to grow up a bit and do his damned job. He didn’t have to like it, but if he couldn’t even _look_ at the people around him, how in the name of heaven was he supposed to identify the pair (man and woman) in question? And if he didn’t locate said suspects tonight, he would be forced to participate in this — _this_ — again and he was damned if he allowed that to happen. He would plead guilty to the murder himself first.

His resolve lasted a good ten minutes before everything went to hell.

He kept seeing the woman who reminded him of Miss Fisher out of the corner of his eye, which was distracting, albeit manageable (if nothing else, he’d gotten used to dealing with Miss Fisher’s distractions), though it forced him to acknowledge just how attracted he really was to the woman, infuriating and exasperating though he found her. He had tried, with limited success, to keep her out of his mind (and fantasies, to his shame), which made his persistent partial erection all the more frustrating, because _of course_ the damned woman had made herself at home in his thoughts (illicit and otherwise) as easily as she had on the corner of his desk. She was one of the few things that could — and did — make his body ignore his mind, especially since he’d gotten to know her better and had reluctantly developed a keen appreciation for her intellect (his thoughts about her body didn’t bear mentioning, particularly since Jack wasn’t one to state the obvious). So now, there was always arousal thrumming through him when he was around her. Or smelled her perfume. Or thought about her.

Damn it.

This was compounded by his guilt at both being aroused by and fantasizing about a woman who wasn’t his w— who wasn’t the woman he was technically married to, his anger at feeling guilty for wanting a woman other than the one who had left him, and his increasing resentment of Rosie for sparking the aforementioned guilt. _She_ no longer wanted him, had even taken the first steps to make it official, but he wasn’t supposed to want anyone else (even though she certainly did; he didn’t need or want to know who it was, but he was very good at his job. Also, people talk.).

And all of it was made exponentially more potent by the forbidden nature of the club and its activities. He was rapidly approaching sensory overload.

However, it was seeing the deputy lord mayor’s wife enthusiastically enjoying the company of two men who _weren’t_ her husband that destroyed his concentration. In his defense, the deputy lord mayor was watching. Jack felt that he could be forgiven some bewilderment at this.

And so he missed the telltale signs of a police raid.

Because on this night, City Central had gotten a tip and were on the way. And due to the delicate nature of the reason Jack was present, his assignment was ‘need to know’ and other stations apparently didn’t have that need.

His ears recognized the sounds of an active raid first but before his brain could catch up and advise literally _any_ other course of action, Jack reacted on instinct and ducked around a corner, heading for one of the private alcoves available to the VIP club members. They were the perfect hiding place, because the doors were part of the mural on the wall (painted to look like a door, in fact; Jack had to admire the cunning intelligence that had gone into the idea) and if one didn’t realize that the wall sconce was a place marker, one would never know they were there. He was bare inches from safety when he and the small, lithe female _(not-Phryne)_ he’d been trying to ignore all bloody night crashed into each other with such an impact that their momentum pushed them back into the same room she’d just exited. By some minor miracle, he managed to keep them from slamming the damn door shut when they stumbled against it, though he could not for the life of him fathom how.

In the resultant attempts to keep their balance, Jack found himself pressing her against the smooth, polished wood of the now-closed door with his full weight settled against her back and his nose falling to rest just behind her ear; his breath caught in his throat as he registered the lush, enticing curves pressed so intimately against his hard angles, and his body caught fire even as his mind frantically scrabbled for something, _anything¸_ to distract him from the dangerous position he suddenly found himself in.

They had both gone still at the sound of footsteps clomping down the hall, getting louder and louder as they approached the pair’s hiding place, and the danger of discovery only served to sharpen his senses to hyperawareness. They were barely breathing in their attempt to remain undetected, and Jack, to his horror, found himself unable to ignore, much less pull away from, how good she felt. His hands were braced against the wood on either side of her shoulders, and the woman was bent slightly over, her legs spread a little for balance, which had the extremely distracting effect of her lower body making contact with parts of _his_ body that were entirely too interested in — well.

As his body ignored the panicked admonishments of his mind, all of his turbulent emotions swirled up at once and in the resultant whirlwind, Jack _felt_ himself somehow managing to both sport an erection so hard he was afraid it would tear the fabric of his trousers and simultaneously blushing so furiously that he was actually concerned that he was about to suffer (or be rescued by) a heart attack. Shame, desire, guilt, fury at being put in this situation, and lust were savagely fighting for dominance, and her wriggling against him Was. Not. Helping.

Her right hand, fine-boned and delicate, was resting beneath his against the smooth wood of the door and the other was wrapped tightly around his wrist. The alcove was nearly pitch-black, the only light coming from the dying embers of an extinguished lantern, and dead silent but for the quiet sound of their clothes rustling, when Jack, who was drawing in slow, deep breaths in a desperate attempt to regain control, suddenly found himself dizzy from her scent, which was quickly permeating the small room. It was dark and sinful, as if someone had managed to capture the scent of starlight in a thunderstorm and then blended it with sex and danger. It reminded him so (too) much of Miss Fisher, though she’d never worn anything so blatant in the time he’d known her, and the sense memory (fantasy) was wreaking havoc on his control.

Dear God. He’d never wanted a woman ( _not Phryne)_ so badly in his life.

Then she arched her neck and he got another lungful of that intoxicating fragrance as her hair tickled his nose, and his resolve splintered to shards. He groaned inaudibly, a tiny corner of his brain frantically reminding him that his identity could not become known, and involuntarily flexed his hips against her before trying to force himself to step back. His mind was cloudy with a combination of desire and fear, and he needed —

Needed . . .

. . . wanted . . .

The sound of those same footsteps retreating caught his attention and he vaguely registered that they should be safe now, just before the woman pushed herself back against him, her curvaceous derrière rubbing against his lower stomach and groin. The feeling was so exquisite that he gasped, getting another deep breath of that _gorgeous_ fragrance, and his control shredded further. **_No_.** No, he couldn’t do this, though he couldn’t quite remember why. With monumental effort, he locked every muscle in his body and was trying to push himself away when she spread her legs a little further and pressed herself more firmly against him, her right hand moving out from under his to curl over his hip and the other sliding up his arm to tangle in his hair. The onslaught of sensation was overwhelming and he was utterly incapable of preventing himself from rocking into her. Her pleased hum at the action vibrated through his chest and caused him to harden even more as he did it again, knowing she would feel every inch of the rampant desire that he was unable to suppress.

Jack felt his command of the situation slipping from his frantic grasp but for the first time in his life, he almost didn’t care.

The last sliver of sanity he possessed had him paralyzed with indecision: his body (the separated (petition for _divorce_ ) and abandoned man) was warring ferociously with his mind (the still-married, respectable detective) when the hand on his hip suddenly curved itself over his throbbing, aching cock.

The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth when he bit his tongue to hold back his startled yelp of pleasure and he gave in, dropping his head so he could nuzzle her neck and drown in that intoxicating scent as he started to rock against her warm, eager body. She so clearly wanted this, effortlessly finding his rhythm and matching him move for move while her fingers tugged open his trousers and pulled him free of his underwear so she could stroke him, her warm hand steady and skilled. He swallowed a moan as he desperately fought back his climax, unable to bear the thought of this _(deliciously wicked)_ stolen moment ending so soon (and, oh, it felt so good!), and breathed heavily into her hair while he calmed himself enough to let his hips find the sweet cadence of her hand. She stroked him several times, squeezing and flexing her fingers, making him see actual stars, before starting to turn and face him, only to go still when he shook his head against her shoulder as he panted softly against her neck and let his touch-starved body soak in the delicious reality of hers.

After a few seconds, she nodded and caught his hand with her free one, caressing the sensitive skin of his palm as she eased it to down that tantalizing area just above the place he wanted to be more than anywhere in the _world_ right now and squeezing softly before releasing him entirely and placing both open hands against the door. Jack was unable to hold back a choked cry of loss that he buried in the soft fabric of her shirt when she took her hands _(her touch)_ away, but he sucked in a sharp breath when he realized what she was asking him to do, lust raging through him at the unmistakable realization that she really did want this. Wanted _him_. Slowly, his fingers shaking, he trailed them down her lower belly and firm thigh until he could snag the hem of her skirt and pull it high enough to grant him access to the warm, enticing welcome he found waiting for him, kept from his wondering touch only by soft silk, even as he started rocking against her again. The slide of his cock against the sleek material of her clothes felt so staggeringly good that he felt tears come to his eyes and he was unable to hold back a whimper that he only just managed to bury in her neck.

For a long moment, Jack didn’t move other than the slow motion of his hips; he was hesitant to stroke her with his fingers, having only done it a few times, but she seemed to understand and took his hand again, tenderly cradling it as she moved them both down into her knickers. The wet heat of her shocked him even as it sent a sharp thrill of desire rushing through him and the sensation of her showing him what she liked, how to touch her, felt incredible. She was also giving him soft purrs of encouragement even as she undulated with him in sinuous, languid strokes that had him biting his lip to keep from crying out in pure, unfettered delight.

His cock was aching and harder than he might ever have been in his life, and the dual sensations of exploring her and feeling her rolling her body against his had him teetering on the brink of an orgasm that might well kill him when she suddenly squeezed his hand so hard it actually hurt, though it was pain his lust-soaked mind eagerly welcomed, and arched against him, her head falling back to his shoulder as she muffled an actual, honest-to-God _scream_ against his neck while she moved her fingers frantically with his, using him to draw out and enhance her pleasure. She felt so sublime against him that he stopped moving so he could fully enjoy it, and when she finally slumped against the door, breathing hard as her fingers slipped from his with a warm squeeze, he sucked in a deep lungful of air, gorging himself on that glorious scent, and leaned more heavily against her, craving the feel of her body against his. They stayed like that for a moment, her recovering and him in complete awe that she had climaxed under _his_ fingers, but the urge to move overcame him quickly as his body made a plaintive demand for **_more_**.

Reluctantly, knowing that he couldn’t take her despite how desperately his body was crying out for it, Jack eased his hand away from her warmth and brought it, slick with her fluids, to his throbbing, weeping cock so he could work himself, not feeling even the slightest twinge of shame or embarrassment; his entire being had been consumed by lust and a desire that was deeper and more potent than he’d ever felt. When her fingers, also damp with her own pleasure, immediately covered his, he actually growled against her throat as she arched her body to mold her upper back to his chest, giving herself enough room to play with his eager cock and drive him crazy with raw, unadulterated _need_. The sensation was exquisite and Jack bit his tender lip again to stifle a loud moan, the pain only heightening his pleasure, as he slowly pulled his hand away and gloried in her sweet, wicked touch even as he fumbled to unsnap the front of his braces and shove the constricting material of his trousers out of the way. He was nearly mindless with want now, his body singing with every beautiful stroke, when his sensitive hearing picked up the soft, choked-off gasps she was stifling into her forearm while she tangled her fingers in his hair again and he was only _just_ able to push down a spectacular climax when he realized that she was making those gorgeous sounds because of her enjoyment of _him._

Oh, it had been _so_ _long . . ._

With his face buried in her neck and his hands clamped on her hips, Jack finally let go and just relished being touched by — and touching — someone who wanted him. Someone who wanted to give him pleasure and make him feel good, cherished. Desired. And in that small, dark room, with no words exchanged and without the danger (the disappointment) of seeing each other’s faces, he let himself succumb to his forbidden fantasy that it was Miss Fisher — Phryne — he was holding so intimately, Phryne he had brought to climax in his arms, Phryne who was giving him so much pleasure. Phryne who wanted him to come at her touch.

As if hearing his thoughts, she rubbed herself against him again before giving him an unexpected and clever twist at the top of a particularly intense stroke and it felt so amazing that he was hurtled over the edge into an orgasm so intense and so _good_ that he literally had to bite her shoulder to muffle his cries as she coaxed every last drop of pleasure from him that she could while his vision went white and his brain dribbled out his ears.

When he came back to himself, the room was completely dark and he was alone, sprawled on a surprisingly uncomfortable chaise, and utterly debauched: his trousers and underwear were snagged at his knees, his wet, softened, sensitive cock was resting on his thigh, his braces were beyond ‘hopelessly tangled,’ and his shirt felt so crumpled he was half-afraid it had wrinkled him, too. He blushed as he cleaned himself off with a handkerchief and sighed in resignation when he recognized that ‘reliable, dour, stern Jack’ was beginning to wake up before tucking himself away and straightening his clothes as best he could with no light, mulling over the surprise and (to his bewilderment) small amount of hurt he felt at the realization that she had simply left him, though given his insistence on anonymity, he couldn’t blame her. And as his mind slowly recovered, he was passionately grateful that she had gone. His presence could (and would) be explained and justified. A sexual encounter with an unknown woman could not.

Jack braced himself for the harsh taint of shame and bitter taste of guilt as the memory washed over him, but to his astonishment, they did not come, and after several seconds of moderate concern about the state of his sanity, he remembered the divorce petition . . . and went totally still. He had told Miss Fisher, when her flirtations had become a genuine offer, that a marriage was still a marriage, and he wholeheartedly believed it . . . but. But Rosie had now effectively ended their marriage; he could refuse to sign the divorce papers, but to what purpose? She clearly wasn’t coming back to him and he was increasingly sure he didn’t want her to. Their union was no longer salvageable. His conscience was remarkably quiet about what had just transpired, a point that puzzled him until he also remembered that she was seeing someone else (a detail that she hadn’t had the courtesy to inform him of), which made his lack of guilt somewhat understandable, although he was mildly irritated when he realized he felt guilty for not feeling guilty.

And while he was experiencing no small about of disbelief at his own actions (which was only to be expected, he supposed), as well as some shock and a bit of lingering embarrassment . . . though oddly enough, not about facing Miss Fisher (the woman would doubtless flash some scandalous part of her body at him within minutes of seeing him again, and he’d be flustered right out of his chair; there was no need to borrow trouble), he could also feel the weight of his own disapproval beginning to bear down and threatening to overwhelm everything else. But as he finished putting himself to rights, Jack suddenly, recklessly, decided to **_stop_** thinking for once and just fully embrace the experience. And he couldn’t stop a rueful, slightly smug smile when, in doing so, he finally understood that what he really felt now was . . . well, truthfully, he felt rather like a large cat stretched out in the sun, eyes half-slitted, and lazily flexing his claws.

So this was it felt like to live in the moment. He was starting to understand the appeal.

This sense of contentment wouldn’t last, he knew (his responsibilities were literally calling him), but he couldn’t bear to let it end so harshly, so against all logic and reason, Jack claimed one more stolen moment in a night made of them and simply savored it. What he had just done wasn’t something he could — or would — ever indulge in again, but he could not bring himself to regret it. For the first time since he’d come home from war a changed man and a stranger to the wife he no longer recognized — hell, for one of the first times in his entire _life —_ he’d done something just for himself and his enjoyment. **_His_** pleasure _._ And it had been incredible. No, this would never happen again, but it was a memory, an experience, that he would cherish for the rest of his days.

With a soft smile, Jack Robinson opened the alcove door and slipped silently into the hall, pulling the mantle of Detective Inspector back over him as he went to ensure that his murder suspects hadn’t slipped away.

And that tiny corner of his heart stayed warm all through the rest of that long night and all the nights that followed.

He never forgot her or what they had shared, and he never regretted it, even when his innate honor compelled him to admit to it as the reason to grant both his divorce and his freedom.

He took comfort in the warmth of the memory on those long, bleak nights when the suspect escaped or the case fell apart or when justice simply failed him.

He fondly reminisced even as he fell ever deeper in love with Phryne Fisher and slowly sought her heart in return.

And every time he remembered, he smiled.

~~~

_February, 1930_

Jack Robinson’s bedroom door slammed shut as he fell against it, kissing Phryne like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Finally, _finally,_ they were in the same book, on the same chapter . . . hell, they might even be on the same page now, though he honestly didn’t give a damn if they weren’t. They’d catch up. As their passion flared hotter and higher, he gathered her to his chest and lifted her slightly off the floor, just enough for him to pivot and brace her against the door. She instantly twisted in his arms, putting her enticing back to his front, and gasped, “Off! Take this off, Jack!” as she tugged his hand to the row of tiny buttons running down the back of her shirt. He smiled and eagerly obeyed, desperate to touch her, to feel her skin, to worship her as she deserved and he so badly wanted. When the fabric had fallen to the floor and he’d mapped her back with lips and hands, he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her flush against his chest and reveling at how good, how _right,_ she felt in his embrace as she pressed against him.

The air around them was heavy with anticipation, like the sky just before a thunderstorm.

And they both went still.

For a long, breathless moment, there was silence.

“. . . Phryne?”

His voice was a hoarse, raw whisper, shaking with emotion.

It couldn’t be.

“Jack?”

Her voice sounded as shocked as he felt, but that night was seared into his memory and after another minute of indecision, he carefully pulled her closer to his chest and curled his right arm around her waist, resting his fingertips lightly against her lower belly. Slowly, she moved her right arm back until her hand curved around his hip while she buried her left hand in his hair and let her body arch sensuously against his.

Jack swallowed hard before sucking in a sharp breath and dropping his head to her neck, inhaling deeply in search of the intoxicating perfume she’d worn that night, a scent he’d never come across again. He didn’t find it, but the _feel_ of her was cherished, familiar, and beloved, and tears suddenly sparked in his eyes as he swallowed hard.

“My God,” she whispered in wonder, her fingers clenching on his hip. “That was you.”

“So it seems,” he murmured in agreement, a hint of wicked (and slightly rueful) humor lacing his voice. The irony didn’t escape either of them . . . and it was delicious. On so many levels.

Unable to help himself, he played his hands across her body, enjoying the feel and shape of her in all the ways he’d hadn’t been able to that night. She moaned her approval and arched against him, her fingers tightening in his hair before she suddenly pulled her hand free and eased her body away from his to brace her weight fully against the door. Puzzled, Jack released her completely and took a step back, mouth open to ask the obvious question, when she gave him a coy look over her shoulder.

“I don’t know, Jack — shouldn’t we turn the lights out?” she asked, dragging her tongue across her bottom lip. Jack found himself irrationally jealous for a second (though he couldn’t quite figure out which one he was jealous _of_ ) before her words filtered through the lust that had taken him over. He snorted.

“Well,” he drawled, “I suppose we could, Miss Fisher. But then we’d also have to stay quiet and I’m fairly certain that won’t work for you.”

It took her a few seconds to process this, and then she hissed in irritated arousal, spun in his arms, and ripped his shirt half-open as she covered his throat with a frantic series of hot kisses and tugged his tie off.

“We’ll see who screams first, Jack Robinson,” she threatened, shoving him back to the bed and brandishing his tie as she crawled over him, their mouths meeting again in a frenzied, passionate kiss.

And as that long-cherished night became the first in a brand-new saga, Jack remembered.

And smiled.

~~~  
 _fin_

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic happened for a couple of reasons. The first is that I may be the world’s biggest David Tennant fan and there’s a certain scene from his mini-series Deadwater Fell that I found . . . extremely inspiring. While I was in the middle of said inspiration, in what proved to be a truly astounding coincidence, I came across a pic of disheveled Nathan Page. The resultant burst of inspiration of imagining Nathan in David's place was — well. Let’s call it stimulating. Then . . . 3000 words later . . . I suddenly realized I was writing early Jack. Like, pre- to mid-season one Jack. And I said ‘no, I can’t do that and make it believable . . . can I?’
> 
> Timeline-wise, I’m fitting this well after 'Raisons and Almonds', but before 'Murder in Montparnasse' — but NOT during 'Ruddy Gore'. Are we all confused yet? Also, I tried to research divorce procedures, processes, and timelines in 1928, but Google gave me a blank stare. Therefore, I’m extrapolating that it wouldn’t take nearly as long to get a divorce accomplished in Jack’s time as it does now, but the papers still had to be filed and approved, and a court date assigned. And just because one party receives said papers doesn’t mean they’ll sign and return immediately. Thus, for whatever reason, my brain decided to combine these three things and gave me both this fic and my desperate hope that I’ve actually managed to keep everyone in character and believable.
> 
> Enjoy?


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